


Dojo'd

by Davechicken



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 18:41:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10747566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Sparring... fun.





	Dojo'd

It would never be a fair fight, not without some means of dampening the Force. She knows that, as they square off on the mat; her socks making slight screeches on the surface as they start to circle slowly round. 

He has the advantage of power (only just); she has the advantage of stamina (or more likely ‘patience’). He has the weight, but she has the height. Without the Force, they might be evenly balanced, and she isn’t sure which of them would truly win. It would - most likely - be whoever wanted it the most.

Today, that’s her. Even though it makes no sense to expect she could, she _wants_ to win. She wants to, because she _can’t_ , and so she must. Even if winning would mean he let her…

Phasma feels her fingers flex automatically into readiness, her knees bouncingly light. She’s dropped into stance like breathing, and her eyes scan his body-language, reading instinctually faster than her conscious mind could ever process. His pupils are blown, his shoulders hunched, and… that’s…

New. Distracting. 

Her gaze lingers just a little too long on those lips, and then he surges forwards, presenting his shoulder and listing to his weaker side, hands ready to grapple.

She’s not _that_ distracted, and she side-steps, giving him a glance to her hip and then retreating quickly. More pacing, and he’s _smiling_ , and she realises she is, too. 

Blow. Feint. Swipe. Block. She grabs his wrist, pushing it up between his shoulders, and finds herself flipped over his back when he dips and twists. Her feet land on the other side, and they prowl around from further back.

Dancing. That’s what this is: dancing. They’re both far too skilled to _need_ to train, though you have to keep your talents honed, and what better way? 

His leg sweeps at hers, and she has to decide if she goes with it, or weakens herself by staggering back. She still has momentum, so she lets him drop her, but she grabs his shin and rolls herself up his leg, a hand behind his knee making it bend and bringing him down.

Phasma crawls over him, fighting his knees and his elbows, finding herself flipped under, over, under. Smack, smack, smack. Every roll pushes their bodies closer, and sends her arousal rocketing. 

Smack. Onto her back. His hands pinning her wrists, his eyes alight with victory… at least until she brings her knee up and smacks his balls with just enough force to dislodge him.

 _Thwack_.

Now she’s on top, and she’s holding his wrists down, laughing by his cheek. 

“Tie?” Kylo asks, sounding warmly amused.  


“Not letting me off lightly, are you?”  


“No… I’m letting _me_ off lightly.”  


She slams his hands again, then sits back. Her weight is low on his belly, her ass grazing his groin. Kylo’s hands come to her thighs, and she slides over his torso, enjoying the hissing breaths she gets in return.

This room is safe, she knows. Only the Knights and herself are allowed here to train, and Kylo is _circumspect_ when he invites her in. There’s no risk that anyone will see her rubbing her rump over his bump, or her nails over his cloth-covered nipples. No one will see when his hands push up and under her shirt, his palms smothering her breasts in a warm glow. 

“Letting off… or getting off?” she teases, reaching back to drag her nails over his cock, through his pants.  


“ _Yes_.”  


Maybe she should wait until they’re back in his quarters, but she doesn’t want to. Her blood is racing _now_ , and she rises up, pulling her own pants down and over her thighs. They bunch above her knees, and he’s unfastening his own clothing, pulling his cock out of the fly, just enough to use.

It shouldn’t be as hot as it is to do this fully dressed, but the fake thrill of potential exposure is too good to pass up on. She lines his shaft between her wet lips and rubs them together, grinding harder when his cock touches her clit. 

Kylo’s hands grab her buttocks, trying to urge her onto him, but she’s not going to give in until _she_ is ready. She wants to be good and slick, and the harder she rubs, the more open she feels. 

“I need you,” he whispers, looking so, so lost.  


“I know you do.”  


“Please…”  


“Not yet. Not yet.”  


She watches the emotions war over his face, and drinks each one in. Harder, wetter, and he’s fighting the urge to thrust. 

Eventually, she can’t wait any more. She uses her hand to hold him ready, and slides her hole over him, pushing down until he’s all the way inside. 

The friction and sense of fullness makes her toes wrinkle, and then she’s moving with real purpose, chasing her own pleasure first and foremost.

“I - oh - I–”  


An incoherent Kylo is something of an achievement, and it makes her walls clench in satisfaction. Harder, harder, and she puts a hand between her legs to worry at her clit. She wants to come before he does, and that’s going to be the easiest way for everyone’s happy endings.

“I still think I won,” she muses, as her legs go rock-solid, then soft.   


“You did,” he reassures her, his fingers stealing between her buttocks. “You won.”  



End file.
